Coming Home To You

She turned to Daphne. “Did she lose consciousness at any point?”

“Just now, she closed her eyes. I don’t—”

Fran slapped Daphne’s hands off her head, one of which still clutched the paperback. “I didn’t lose consciousness. I didn’t get the chance before you nearly shook the teeth out of my head.”

A blatant lie.

Linda tossed out another question. “When did you first notice signs of impairment?”

“Impairment?” Fran said. “I haven’t been drinking!”

Daphne didn’t know how to answer except with the embarrassing truth. She held up her book. “I’m unable to comment. I was...reading.”

“The same story for the tenth time,” Fran said. “Can’t get enough of Elinor and Edward.”

More like the fiftieth. “Nothing seemed amiss until she attempted to negotiate the turn onto the street. I strenuously advised against it but she—”

“Wouldn’t listen. Story of my life. Anyway, all’s well that ends well.”

Mr. Greene looked out the windshield at the RV lodged in the restaurant wall.

Fran grunted. “I guess we’ll have to sort things out.”

“I’d like to see you lie down,” Linda said. “Do you want help to your bed or can you manage on your own?”

Fran opened her mouth in protest but the wail of sirens preempted her, and she sighed. “All right. Let’s do this.” She turned to Daphne. “You still not in clothes?”

Oh. Daphne glanced at Mr. Greene-on-Top, who suddenly found a great interest in the geometric floor tile. Oh! She clapped the book over her chest. To assist Fran, Linda edged closer to Daphne. Daphne shuffled out of the way, only to bump against her hide-a-bed, which was still folded out. Off balance, she plunked down on it, or more precisely, on a bag of chips, which crunched ever so finely under her bottom.

Linda eased her hold on Fran to lower her onto the bed.

“I’ll sleep here over my dead body!” Fran said. “Granted, that won’t be long from now, but still, I will not lay my bones on this refuse heap. My room’s at the back.”

More crunching, rolling and crawling of the three women ensued, ending when Daphne pressed against the small dining table to allow them to pass down the hallway.

“Just so you know,” Fran said as Linda ushered her through the bedroom door, “the second you leave, I’m back at the wheel.”

“That’s fine,” Linda said, “since I will have the keys.”

Oh, heavens. Fran thrived on adversity. Her fragile health always seemed to rally just so she could rail against someone who dared to oppose her. Which probably explained her deteriorating state on this trip, since Daphne avoided controversy the way a mouse skirts open spaces. Still, Daphne now had a reprieve to face—

Mr. Greene-on-Top was gone. Breathing a sigh of relief, she slipped inside the bathroom, which doubled as her dressing room.

She set her book by the sink. It wasn’t easy; her hand had gone into a kind of rigor mortis, and she had to pry her fingers from the cover and then flex her hand repeatedly to regain motor control.

She peeled off her nightie. Yes, the apparel was unseemly and impractical, but Daphne had been in desperate need of inspiration. Writing a book required some.

Unfortunately, all the nightie had served to do was embarrass her. Which was par for the course. Nothing on this sweaty, bumpy, boring, mosquito-tormented, quarreling, pill-driven, five-week and are-we-there-yet? excursion across the True North Strong and Free had turned out as intended.

She’d spent the past month secretly hoping they’d head home to Halifax. Back to her university office, crowded with shelves of silent, stationary books. Back to her apartment, with its full bookshelves and thick curtains and a quiet so profound that the starting of the fridge fan could jar her.

Well, with their means of transportation now stuck in the wall of a Tim Hortons in some Albertan town, her wish had partly come true. Not exactly a return to Halifax, but they wouldn’t be moving forward. At least, for a day. Longer, if at all possible. If not for Daphne’s sake, then for Fran’s. The accident had proved that neither of them were in any shape to continue.

Over the loud sirens outside and through the thin wall between the bedroom and the bathroom, Daphne heard Fran’s voice. “Rest with you here, ready to rob me blind? I might be dead tomorrow but neither was I born yesterday.”

Oh, dear. Maybe if the nurse could get Fran to the hospital, the doctors there could make her stop this insane trip. Maybe the police could strip Fran of her license. Surely, it was clear she was a hazard on the road.

The sirens cut out, signaling the police’s arrival.

“The cavalry’s here,” Daphne muttered. Still in her underwear, Daphne scanned the littered bathroom floor for suitable clothing. The university tracksuit she’d bought on a whim before leaving to wear in a pinch was lying in a heap on the floor. Five weeks in, every day was a pinch. The tracksuit reeked of campfire smoke, mosquito spray and her deodorant.

“Hello?” Mr. Greene again.

Daphne scrambled into the tracksuit, its stench wonderfully clearing her muddled mind, and then she exited the bathroom to the front.

This time, Mr. Greene was accompanied by a police officer.

“Hello. I’m Corporal Paul Grayson,” the officer stated from the other side of her bed. “Daphne, is it?”

He must’ve got her name from Mr. Greene. Daphne wished she remembered his first name. She never could remember names when they were spoken to her, which made the first day of classes excruciating. She’d invented a mental game of rhyming names to hurry the memorization process. Hopefully someone would mention the man’s name so she could use her trick. “Yes. That’s right.”

“Daphne,” he repeated in an extra calm voice, “do you mind stepping outside with me?”

Was he going to arrest her? Was carelessness a crime? Perhaps so, particularly since there’d been property damage. But she hadn’t been driving. Was she an accessory?

Her breath caught in her throat. Negligence. Yes, she knew that was a crime, one she’d magnificently demonstrated.

Then again, her arrest would stop the trip.

Had things so unraveled that she was actually welcoming the chance to be placed in cuffs?

“Very well.” With a straight back, she scooted across her bed and down the steps. Mr. Greene was already waiting beside the coach, like a flight attendant. When she reached the bottom step, he pointed at her bare feet with a thick, strong workman’s finger. Not too many of those on the university campus. Or on Edward Ferrars, for that matter.

“You need shoes. There’s broken glass out here.”

She blinked at him in the new morning light. “Oh. Yes. Of course.”

She mounted the steps, searching her mind for where she’d left her shoes. Any shoes. “I saw a pair under the bed,” he called after her.

“Oh. Yes. Thank you.”

As she got on her hands and knees, Daphne was quite sure she would beat Fran to death’s door and expire here and now from incurable mortification.

CHAPTER TWO (#uaaced10c-f733-52e4-b648-a8363022897d)

DAPHNE’S MORTIFICATION SWELLED when she viewed the damage to the motor home and the restaurant. One of the Tim’s windows was webbed with cracks, and the RV’s fender was twisted and stuck well into the bashed brickwork. At least Fran owned The Stagecoach, as they’d dubbed it, so they just had to deal with the insurance company.

A uniformed officer was taking pictures, and so was the Tim Hortons man. Should she be, too? Then again, to what end? Responsibility—hers and Fran’s—was undeniable.